Lolita Stories

Related article: Eleven-and-a-half: A Fantasy Of Great Length by
Ray WilderChapter 31: PeterThis is a work of fiction. All the
characters, events and locations portrayed in this book are
fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, events or
locations is purely coincidental.Copyright �
1996. All rights, implicit or implied, except for distribution by
this archive and personal use by the individual downloading the
file, are reserved. Inquiries regarding publishing rights for this
book should be directed to:
raywildaol.com======================================== He wished
that something interesting would happen so that he could get his
mind off. . . well, everything his mind was on. Unfortunately, it
would take a major catastrophe like the gym burning down to
distract him. He had a lot to think about and wasn't too sure he
wanted to deal with much of it. Any of it, actually. The first
thing he didn't want to have to deal with was his unquenchable
erection. And all that it represented. Until this afternoon it had
just been a fact of life, a really shitty life, and he would spend
as little time as possible in thinking about why he couldn't get
rid of it like most every other male could. But now, with Patty
coming on to him, and thoughts of Arnold driving him crazy, he had
found it necessary to spend the rest of the day walking around with
an extremely long and stretched out T-shirt hanging down over his
crotch. He tried to stay uninvolved with the clientele, but it
seemed as though everyone had a question, a favor to ask, a problem
with some piece of gear. And everytime he went out on the floor
there were all these huge, muscular bodies heaving huge, clanking
weights, bulging and sweating and smelling so goddamn wonderful
that his mind kept filling with visions of him and Arnold. Him and
Patty. Him and Arnold and Patty and anyone else that happened to be
in sight at the moment. His cock continued to leak. It was like an
orgasm drawn out to an incomprehensible length. Slow, plodding,
unrelenting, and very unsatisfactory. After a while he could stand
it no longer. He excused himself to the same bathroom Patty had
utilized for her fantasy of himself. He thought that the
surroundings Lolita Stories and memories of her description of his
part in it might help him. He also knew, even before closing the
door, just how useless this would be. He sat quickly on the closed
toilet seat as a wave of nausea overcame him. This happened
everytime he contemplated trying to make himself cum. Little
flashes of his past tried to flicker across his consciousness,
memories, voices, pain, anguish, punishment. He knew, deep within
him, that all these things he carried were unnecessary, harmful. He
would have to face them first, but this he could not bring himself
to do. And so he could not cum. Because someone he could not, would
not, remember who kept telling him he wasn't supposed to. "No."
"Bad." "Wrong." "Only when I say you can." "I'll beat you to within
an inch of your life if I catch you doing that again," Why? He had
no idea. Or he had plenty of ideas, but to investigate them meant
delving into a past that was too painful to even begin to remember.
And so he could not cum. He fought down the sickening feeling in
his stomach, pulled the oversize T-shirt up over his head and
tossed it in the corner. After taking a couple of deep breaths he
stood, unsteadily, to untie his sweat pants and take them off. He
glanced up and saw his reflection in the mirror which hung on the
wall over the sink. It caught him by surprise. He knew the mirror
was there, he knew he would see himself in it, but, for some
unexplained reason, what he saw astounded him. The image that
reflected itself back towards him was that of a young man, late
teens, slightly curly brown hair, deep brown, hard-set eyes, fine
chiseled facial features, thick neck, broad chest and shoulders
capped with nice mounds of muscle, heavily muscled and well-defined
upper arms, forearms which were just beginning to display a fine
array of veins, a flat, rigid abdomen and, now, with the T-shirt
off, just peeking up over the waistband of his sweat pants, the
fine, deep red head of a healthy serving of cockmeat. It had all
been there before. Just this morning he was sure he had looked in
the mirror in his bathroom and seen this very same sight (minus his
cock peeking over the waistband). But, no. Not this very same
sight. For suddenly, and he knew the reason why, he was seeing
himself completely differently. Arnold. His cock ached. His head
spun. But this time Lolita Stories it wasn't
ghosts from the past demanding his compliance to some unremembered
rule. This time it was an energy. A force. He had felt it as he
took Arnold around the gym, pumping for him, answering questions
for him, longing for him, dying for him. And Arnold had been
interested in him. Really interested. He had listened to every
single word Peter had said, had processed it, stored it, thought
about it. What Peter had done, had shown him, had told him; it had
all been extremely important to Arnold. No one at anytime in
Peter's memory had ever taken him so seriously, had valued his
knowledge, his abilities, his existence so completely. And Patty.
Peter had no idea where all that stuff with Patty had come from. He
knew she was hot. She was always horny, always dragging some
muscle-bound stud into the office for a quick thrash in the middle
of the afternoon. But she also knew Peter's own sexual preferences.
And suddenly she was fantasizing about him and coming on to him
like there weren't a hundred other guys within quick walking
distance who wouldn't love to get their hands on her incredible
body. And there she was trying to get Peter, of all people, to have
sex with her. Go figure. He did try to figure. And he ended up with
the same answer: Arnold. It was like he was going around lighting
all these little brush fires of desire and self-realization,
letting them smolder and then, later, when you weren't expecting
it, poof. You look in the mirror and you suddenly seem different.
Everything seems different. You're different, the people around you
are different, your past, your present, your future all take on
this unbelievable aura of. . . of. . . differentness. And then
there was Arnold, himself. Peter had spent an awful lot of time
hanging around the gyms of this town. He had seen an awful lot of
fully, partially and not-at-all clothed men. He knew that, even
when he was still trying to convince himself that he was straight,
he had done a lot of staring, drinking in the sight of huge
muscles, gorgeous faces, long, dangling cocks. In the days since
his sexual realignment he had gone out of his way to experience the
vicarious thrill that all those bulges and smells and sights gave
him. But not once, in all the gyms, with all the men in shower
rooms, dressing rooms, on the machines, the beach, in the
restaurants, stores and sidewalks of this town filled with so many
people whose sole aim in life was to make their bodies as amazing
and sexually charged as possible, had he ever felt the way he felt,
physically and emotionally, about Arnold. Immediately.
Spontaneously. Severely. Irrepressibly. Arnold. Peter's cock began
to really ache as he thought about the beauty of that man who had
walked into his life a few hours ago and changed him forever. And
all the guy had done was listen to him. There was, of course, the
thought of what lay just beneath the soft cotton fabric of his
trousers, the huge bulge pushing subtly, persistently, powerfully
against his zipper. Eleven-and-a-half inches. Peter tried to
imagine just what that looked like, what it felt like. How heavy
was that? How thick? What would it feel like to have
eleven-and-a-half inches of erection hanging off the front of his
body. He thought of how his own cock felt right now, aching for a
release he was sure he would not be able to achieve. Imagine that
agony, that pain, with eleven-and-a-half inches. Shit! He pulled
his sweat pants down to the floor and stepped out of them. He then
disposed of the now-useless jock strap. His cock was throbbing. He
thought of it being as big as Arnold's. How good it would hurt
being that big. He grabbed the shaft and was amazed to find that he
didn't experience the sudden waves of dizziness and nausea that
always accompanied any contact with his cock. He placed his other
hand on the shaft above the first and tightened his grip slowly
until he was exerting so much effort that his muscles bulged and
his cock began to buzz with an unaccustomed sensation that felt
suspiciously like the beginnings of true sexual arousal, not just
pent-up, unreleasable sexual agony. Looking in the mirror again, he
saw himself anew. This time his muscles were bulging, veins and
arteries displayed across his chest, down his arms. His pecs
swelled out with increased definition, the wonderful cleft along
his sternum, between the muscles, deep and defined. He tensed his
body even more and was surprised to see that he had not already
reached the limits of his muscular display. Bigger and bigger,
harder and more defined. He dared to begin Lolita Stories
running his hands up and down the length of his cock. Small voices
began to echo in the back of his mind. He tried to shut them off.
They got louder, more insistent. The nausea began, he got dizzy. He
tensed his muscles even harder. His whole body began to shake with
fatigue but the voices diminished. The speed of his hands
increased. He let off on the pressure of his cock just a bit so
that the long, hard shaft could slip through his fingers more
easily. But he knew he would not be able to keep this up very long
without some sort of lubrication. He flung open the mirror which
covered a small medicine cabinet and there, like the holy Lolita
Stories grail itself, was a squeeze bottle of skin lotion. He
picked it up. It was even full. He had difficulty getting the cap
open and then realized it was a flip top, not a screw-off cap. He
squeezed the bottle way too hard and ended Lolita
Stories up with an overflowing palm of slippery yellow
liquid. He wiped most of it off on the inside lip of the sink and
then slathered the rest on the length of his aching cock. He
swooned. Not from nausea. Not from some deep-seated fear of
disobedience, but from pure, unadulterated sexual ecstasy. He
collapsed back onto the toilet and began to pump his hand lightly
but furiously up and down his cock. Within a matter of just seconds
he could feel a tightness begin to form in his balls and he knew
that, after all these years, all the agony, all the shame, all the
hatred and loathing and fear, he was about to cum. Really cum. Not
just drip, dribble, drool, leak. But cum. "No." "Bad." "Wrong."
"Only when I say you can." "I'll beat you to within an inch of. .
." His hand flew off his cock like it had suddenly become
white-hot. His mind burned in retribution as fears of the unknown
hell which awaited him for his transgression flooded his mind. He
was not going to let this happen. With all his might, all his
will-power, he grabbed his cock again. Searing pain wracked his
body. He knew it wasn't really there. He knew it was only in his
mind. This did little to lessen its impact. The voices started
again. This time louder, more grotesque. He clamped his hands to
his ears, trying to stifle the infernal cacophony, knowing that it
all came from within, but not having any other solution. A hot
poker of a migraine stabbed his head just behind his eyes. The
severity of it threw him to the floor where he writhed in agony. He
tried to find some place in his mind where he could run to get away
from the excruciating punishment. Why? How? What had he done to
deserve such treatment? Who was telling him this? Who was doing
this to him? What was so wrong with this most basic of pleasures?
He wasn't hurting anyone. He didn't want to hurt anyone. The only
one hurting was himself. Himself. Hurting himself. They couldn't
hurt him so they made him hurt himself. They. Who? Images of two
strange adults came to his mind. He saw them through eyes much
smaller, younger, and more tender than now. Who were these people?
Mom? Dad? These were not the faces of his parents. But he knew them
as Mom and Dad; was certain of it. He had no time to figure out the
meaning of all this. The fact that he had imaged a face to match
this unbearable torture had done its job, enough. The sharp pain
behind the eyes lessened enough that he could sit up on the floor,
grasp the toilet and lift himself up onto it. His vision was fuzzy,
his extremities numb. His raging hard-on cried out for attention
but he dared not touch it for fear of triggering another attack.
His mind skirted the issue of the unknown faces; the source, he now
knew, of his problem. The fact was that he knew who these people
were. But the memory of them was too painful to touch. He suddenly
felt very small, very alone. He wanted to cry, to curl up against
someone and let a decade of grief and suffering and internal
torture come pouring out. And here he sat, alone in a bathroom with
the clanking of iron and the smell of sweat and the taste of his
own salty tears and the piercing, throbbing pain in his head and an
agonizingly stiff erection that seemed to be completely unaffected
by what the rest of his body was going through. Alone. No comfort.
No confidence. No love. And a voice. Another voice. Deep,
resonating, soothing, reassuring, positive. It echoed from his
recent past. He knew who it was. It caressed his deflated ego, it
kissed his hopeless libido, it ran through him, raising him, making
him see himself as he had just moments Lolita Stories before
in the mirror. Changed, ready to meet the challenge of a new life,
if only he would shed the old. "You should be quite proud to have
Peter on your staff, Patty. He knows more about what's going on
around here than people I've talked to at other gyms who are twice
his age." Arnold's beautiful face hovered in front of Peter's field
of vision. A small ray of hope, a strong arm to lean on. He heard
it and knew Arnold was talking about him. "You should be quite
proud. . ." Again the words echoed in his mind and he felt the pain
and nausea recede. He gathered his thoughts, shook his head to
clear the last remnants of his vicious attack. He focused on the
concept of pride in himself. As the notion of that became clearer
in his mind the pain and agony dissipated until he could once again
deal with his present surroundings. He looked around. There was
blood on the tiled floor. He checked himself in the mirror and saw
that he had bitten his lip. Blood trickled out of the corner of his
mouth, down his chin and was splattering onto his left pec. He
started to reach for a paper towel to wipe it off but stopped.
There was something about the blood, about the blood right there on
his chest. It looked like Lolita Stories a gash, a huge
gaping hole as though someone had plunged a knife into him and
pulled it out to allow him to bleed. More strange images formed in
his head but they came so fast and furious he was not able to sort
them out. Someone was going to have a lot of talking to do when he
next met up with the people he had thought, until just a few
moments ago, were his parents. He was now sure they were not. He
got a towel out of the dispenser and wetted it in the sink. As he
sponged the water onto his pec it ran down over the clotted blood,
turning red, and ran off the front of his pec, the last drops
clinging to the edge of his muscle before dripping into the sink.
He squeezed the towel and more water ran down and off. He had
always been turned on by that shelf of flesh on the huge men he had
drooled over in the shower room, the water running down over their
pumped up pecs, small droplets clinging to their hard nipples, the
water running along the belly of the muscle and finally dripping to
the floor after trying so very hard to cling to those magnificent
mounds of strength. And now, here was the water doing the very same
thing to his own pecs. More water. He flexed his pecs and wrung the
wet towel out at his neck. He watched in the mirror as the path of
each droplet defined the smooth, broad curvature of his chest. "You
must be quite proud." He was. He was nineteen going on twenty and
had a body that many men who had been at it a lot longer than him
envied. He was very good looking, in a boyish way. And he had a
hard, throbbing cock which he knew men and women alike drooled over
when he put on the tight fitting jeans he sometimes wore or that
really skimpy bathing thong he'd gone out and bought at the
beginning of the year. He finished mopping up the blood, wiped
himself off with a dry towel, checked the damage to his lip
(minimal) and then returned his attention to his still rigid cock.
It had felt so very good when he had run his lotioned hands along
the length of it. He had seen men jerk-off before. He knew what he
was supposed to do. He even had memories of attempting it in the
past himself, although those were fraught with terrible images
which, obviously, haunted him even today. His balls were aching a
lot more than they normally did, and they always did, normally. He
cupped his hand and cradled the tender organs in his palm. They
felt soft and warm. He watched as the skin of his scrotum reacted
to the temperature of his hand and began to relax and contract in
different places. Slowly he rolled his balls back and forth with
his fingers. He remembered the last time someone had done this to
him. The only person he had ever let touch him there. She had loved
him so much, he knew that now. She had tried so hard to make it
right for him, to take away the pain. Perhaps she had known that he
was gay and was only trying to help him find a way to get around
his torturous problem. In the end it had hurt and saddened them
both. And when he had finally discovered the truth about his own
sexuality he had felt so betrayed by this woman, so angry that she
had somehow deceived him, that he completely shut her out of his
life. If he had only realized what it was she was trying to do. He
knew he should find her again and let her know how he felt. How
grateful he was that she had tried. How sorry he was that he had
not realized what it had meant to her as well. He knew where she
worked, or at least had until they stopped seeing each other. He'd
go find her again. But now he had a different objective. He let the
feeling of assurance and pride that had filled him a few moments
ago reform and rebuild until his head was again buzzing with that
positive feeling. He took the bottle of lotion, walked to the
toilet, lifted the lid and sat down. If he had his way there was
going to be a lot of cum to get rid of. He wasn't sure what he was
going to do with it; wasn't even sure how much there would be, but
he wanted to be ready, just in case. He carefully squeezed a
moderate amount of the lubricant into his right hand and set the
bottle down on the floor beside him. He then paused for a few
seconds, took a couple of deep breaths, as though he were about to
go into some heavy reps, formed an image in his mind of what he
wanted to accomplish, just as he had learned to do at the beginning
of each day's workout, and chuckled a bit as visions of holes being
blown through the roof of the building came to mind. He tempered
himself with a touch of reality and concentrated on just being able
to achieve orgasm. His hand slowly enfolded his aching penis. The
lotion was cold for a moment but the heat of his cock soon warmed
it up. He spread it over the length of the shaft and up to the
thick, rubbery head. Every millimeter of movement produced wild
sparks of sensation that flashed throughout his tense, muscular
body. He felt electrified. His head fell back, his mouth open, his
eyes shut, as he enjoyed, unencumbered for the first time in his
present memory, the delicious experience of masturbation. He tried
to focus on some sexual icon that would guide him to his
long-awaited orgasm. Images of all kinds of physiques and events
and various swollen body parts flashed behind his lightly closed
eyelids. So many to chose from. He needed to focus. Then he thought
of Arnold and his eleven-and-a-half inch cock hanging heavily
between his naked thighs, small drops of juice dripping from it,
not with the agonizing frustration of never being able to cum, but
with the sexual power of always being ready to. He imagined taking
that huge penis in his hands and holding it, hefting it, stroking
it as it becomes hard and firm. The huge balls that hang suspended
in his huge scrotum call out to be sucked. He lifts the cock out of
the way and sticks his tongue out to touch the Lolita
Stories wrinkled sac of skin. The smell is the essence of
man scent: Hot, steamy, sweaty, musky, deep and heady. He opens his
mouth and lifts one of the huge eggs with his tongue, pulling it to
him, taking it into his mouth. He hears Arnold groan as he gently
rolls the bloated testicle around inside him. He releases it and
takes the other one in. Again Arnold moans. He lets go of the cock
and lets it lay across the top of his head. He can feel the length
of the shaft run down to the nape of his neck. So long. He now
fondles the other ball with his hands while sucking and licking the
one in his mouth. He runs his tongue up the back of the scrotum and
Arnold grabs the sides of his head as he becomes desperately
aroused. The huge cock stiffens. He pulls Peter's head away and
aims the head of his cock at his mouth. His lips part, his tongue
licks them to make sure they're lubricated and then takes the head
in. Low rumblings are felt through Arnold's body as well as through
the air. More. He wants more. Peter sucks deeply on the huge cock,
taking him deeper and deeper into his mouth. The head of Arnold's
cock presses against the back of Peter's mouth and he opens his
throat to take in even more of the amazing length. Arnold is now
breathing hard, his groans and moans coming in time with Peter's
movements. After several minutes Arnold pulls Peter off his cock
and lifts him to his feet. He looks down at Peter's own raging
hard-on and then turns his back to the boy, offering him his tight,
muscular ass. Peter's cock leaps with desire and he grabs the shaft
of it and aims it at Arnold's now exposed asshole. He presses the
fat head of it against the man but hesitates a second. Arnold can
stand it no longer and pushes himself back against the boy's rigid
cock. Instantly Peter's member is deep inside the huge man. There
is no more hesitancy. There is only urgency. Peter grabs the sides
of Arnold's ass and begins to pump his aching cock furiously into
the hot, tight asshole. Within seconds he can feel the cum begin to
churn in his balls. His scrotum swings forward with each thrust and
meets the huge sac that hangs between Arnold's legs. Arnold is
furiously working his own cock, trying to reach his orgasm at the
same time Peter does. The two men begin to grunt and heave in
unison and their powerful thrusts drive each other on to higher and
higher states of arousal. Suddenly something clicks in Peter's
head. A switch is thrown and the flood gates open. He feels a huge
rush come shooting up his cock as he rams it harder and harder
against the beautiful mounds of muscle that adorn Arnold's
posterior. Peter opened his eyes just in time to witness his first
orgasm. A small thought whisked through his mind that he should aim
this somewhere. Fuck it. His cock was considerably larger than he
had ever remembered seeing it. It's dark red color made it look
even more impressive. He watched the slit in the head as his hands
furiously worked the shaft. Up the charge came and suddenly the
head of his cock was exploding with thick, white globs of gooey
substance that flew everywhere. He tried to aim somewhere, but his
whole body was out of control. A load of cum landed on his chest,
several flew off to he knew not where. He tried to get his left
hand over the head to keep the stuff from flying off but he
couldn't convince it to stop pumping his cock long enough to do it.
He wasn't sure how long this was supposed to go on, but it did seem
to be taking a very long time. And still the cum came pouring out
of him. But then, time didn't seem to have much of a meaning at the
moment. And, on top of everything else, he seemed to be shouting at
the top of his lungs. He tried to clamp down on his mouth but only
succeeded in re-injuring the lip he had bit earlier. Fuck it.
Nothing was going to keep him from enjoying this. He continued to
pump his cock and the volleys of cum dwindled to a drool. He kept
pumping his cock, thinking that it would get soft any moment now.
He kept pumping his cock and thought that it still felt awfully
good to do it. He kept pumping his cock and felt his balls begin to
ache with that old familiar pressure. He kept pumping his cock and
within a minute and a half of real time (several delicious eons in
perceived temporal displacement) another only slightly less
enthusiastic onslaught of the essence of life came rocketing up his
still aching prick. He was able to control this salvo a bit more
and even had the coordination to get a shot of the stuff straight
into his mouth. He clamped his lips tight and held the squirmy,
slithery wad loosely on his tongue. He slowly played it back and
forth against his gums, savoring the fresh, salty taste. He knew he
would Lolita Stories like it. He had always dreamed of
having some in his mouth. Now he had to swallow it, however. He
waited until he had completed this second orgasm and then
concentrated on getting it to the back of his throat and then down.
He tilted his head back and the stuff slid along the length of his
tongue. It was just about to fall off the edge and down the hatch
when his throat gagged, clamped shut and tried its best to keep
what was happening from happening. He leaned forward, spread his
legs and let his mouthful drip into the toilet. Great. Some cock
sucker he was going to be. Obviously an acquired taste. In the
meantime, his hand had slowed and was milking the still stiff cock,
attempting to get every last drop up the shaft. His head was
whirling, his whole body was vibrating madly. His cock still ached
deliciously, but now it was from something that felt like
exhaustion, not frustration. He leaned back against the tank, the
cold of the lid pressing against his back. Looking around the room,
he saw that his range had been much greater than he had, except for
the brief fantasy of holes in the ceiling, thought was possible. He
would have to clean it all up. Later. At this point in time he just
wanted to savor his moment of victory. Victory over the past.
Victory over ghosts, both real and imagined. Victory over
inhibitions and lies and pain. He looked again at the cum
splattered surfaces of the room. Trophies in his conquest, like
animal heads mounted on the walls of some safari hunter's library.
He returned his attention to his cock. Softening. Beginning to hang
loosely over the top of his clasping fist. He let go and it drooped
down until it lay on the rim of the seat between his legs. He felt
very well-hung at the moment. He felt powerful, alive. He also
heard the distant murmurings of the voices in his head and knew he
had a long way to go before they left him entirely alone. But he
had cum. And cum again. Twice as many times as he ever remembered
cumming before. He stood up and faced the mirror. And laughed.
That's where that one shot went. He'd have to find some way to comb
it out before he went back out on the floor to work, to kid around,
to laugh, to participate in the life out there. Never again would
he feel the degradation inside himself as he faced all those
potent, vibrant, powerful men and women who, unlike himself until
today, had known the joy and completion Lolita Stories of
sexual release. He had waited so long. He felt he had a lot of
catching up to do. And the first thing he wanted to catch up to was
the eleven-and-a-half inch cock that hung deliciously between the
legs of one of the most beautiful human beings he had ever laid his
eyes or mind on. Tomorrow, Arnold would come in to start his first
workout at the gym. Peter would be ready and waiting for him.
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